Critical Feline Mass
by Kryptaria
Summary: A love story in twelve chapters, including two Harley-Davidsons, a guardian angel, multiple snipers, the only woman who can scare them into behaving themselves, spontaneous kittens, and one attacking sheep. Modern non-superhero AU, slow-burn, warning for PTSD. Co-written with rayvanfox. Entire story posted at AO3.


_**This story was co-written with the wonderful rayvanfox. **_

* * *

Getting by on a medical pension plus disability isn't easy in DC, but Major Sam Wilson at the VA is Sergeant Barnes' guardian angel, and he has a plan for that. He's got a plan for everything, Bucky's learned. And he's grateful for that, because he hasn't lived as a civilian since 2001, and he hasn't had to find an apartment for himself for almost a decade, when he'd last been Stateside for more than three months. His career had violated all sorts of regs once the CIA caught wind of him, and he's been pretty much off the grid since.

Now that he's back for good, he has no idea how to find housing off-base, much less how to handle all of the medical and outprocessing paperwork that's piled up since he ended his last mission in a bloody, unconscious heap.

Sam shepherds Bucky through the tortuous process of VA medical exams, as if the VA doesn't notice the missing arm, and because the damage to Bucky's shoulder keeps regular prosthetics from working right, he even gets Bucky into an experimental program at Johns Hopkins. The prosthetic they fit to Bucky's shoulder hooks up to his spine and brain in ways that he doesn't want to consider, but it's not just a clumsy claw. He actually can feel pressure from force feedback circuits, and he's got pretty good fine motor control.

One day over coffee, Sam suggests Bucky take up cross stitch to improve his dexterity. Bucky makes Sam pay for their refills.

Sam also gets Bucky onto a housing message board, and that might be the best thing Sam's ever done — even better than the arm — because, right as the VA finally approves his disability and he gets his first check, covering eight months of back pay, he gets an email from Sam that directs him to one particular post. The ad is for a basement apartment in a house not too far outside DC. It's got all the standard restrictions checked: no pets, no smoking, no live-in roommates, no parties, no excessive guests. Fortunately, Bucky's social life consists of his old field partner, Clint Barton, and Barton's new girlfriend, Natasha. Other than that, Bucky's only bad habit is making bets at the firing range, where guys can never quite believe a trained sniper can hit the side of a barn with only one "real" arm.

Well, two bad habits. When he came back to the States, he'd arranged for his sister, Rebecca, to get his bike out of storage, tuned up, and shipped down from Brooklyn. Now, with his smartphone holstered to the gas tank as a GPS, he leaves the parking lot of his barracks-turned-apartment and drives off into a gorgeous October day. His leather jacket and gloves cover the hand, so this landlord, Captain Rogers (retired) won't even look twice at Bucky's robot arm.

The commute is thirty minutes without traffic, which means mornings might be a bitch, but Bucky can probably switch his physical therapy appointment to right after lunch. He doesn't even need them, except his therapist and the receptionist are both hot, and he figures that doubles his chances that one of them will find him equally intriguing. He can't help but wonder if Captain Rogers (retired) will mind him bringing home occasional company. Bucky's already gone without for too long.

The house is old and narrow, with a tree in the yard that looks to date back at least fifty years. The grass is a little worn, but there isn't a single fallen leaf, and no weeds visible anywhere. In fact, Bucky feels a little prickle of alarm at how _pristine_ the house is.

And then he notices the Harley. It's a brand new Softail Breakout in the most gorgeous shade of midnight blue. He pulls his bike into the driveway beside the other one, and he can't help but feel a little jealous that his old Harley might get a date before he will. He seriously considers petting this shiny new Harley himself, except he's polite. Sort of. And if he walks a little too close, admiring the custom handlebars and the stitching on the seat, well, who can blame him?

He takes a flagstone path up to the front porch, where he stares in faint amazement at a porch swing. Who has a porch swing these days? It looks ancient, too, except the chains are new, and he suspects it's due for a coat of paint any day, since the wood is freshly sanded in spots.

Since there isn't a doorbell, he opens the screen door and knocks. And the hottest guy Bucky's seen in about ten years opens the door.

There's no way in hell this is Captain Rogers (retired). No one who looks like that _retires_ — not unless it's to go into professional swimsuit modeling or something. He's in paint-stained blue jeans and a white T-shirt that's got drips of beige paint on the shoulders. It's not a design, since it matches a couple of drops in his hair and on his hands. He's in workboots covered with white dust, probably from drywall.

Bucky stares, and it takes him a full two seconds — long enough to kill someone over a mile away — before he says, "Uh."

_Brilliant, Barnes,_ he thinks, and he summons up his most charming smile. There's not a chance in hell that this guy is gay, bi, or even _interested_ in someone like Bucky, but there's no harm in trying. Worst case, the guy throws a punch, Bucky retaliates, and they go their separate ways.

"Hi. Is, uh, Captain Rogers here?"

* * *

Steve hadn't expected anyone to respond to his post about the basement 'apartment' so quickly, but he _really_ wasn't expecting the person to show up at his door to look so much like a rent boy, down to the thick eyelashes, sinful mouth, and leather jacket. Oh, and a classic Harley. This spells trouble. And here's Steve, a complete mess from the last-minute remodeling. _Perfect._

"That's me." Steve finds his manners under the shock of staring at such beauty and reaches his hand out, only to realize how paint-spattered it is. "Oh, sorry, um. It's dry." While Mr. Eyelashes strips the leather glove from his right hand, Steve continues, "I take it you're Sergeant Barnes?" He tries to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yeah." Barnes tips his head to the side and wraps his fingers around Steve's hand. Warm from the glove, strong, nails cut neatly short. It's a contrast to the hair that tumbles down around his face in a mess from his helmet. He has to have been out for a few months at least, with hair that long. Then he grins, and his blue eyes light up. _Danger._ "Sorry for showing up so quick. I'm in this shi—er, craphole of an apartment down by the VA, and I need out."

"It must be pretty bad if you're jumping at a basement apartment." Steve steps back to let Barnes in. "I mean, this isn't a 'craphole', but there's not much in the way of natural light." Best to not get this guy's hopes up, because then Steve can keep himself from thinking about the pleasure of having such a beautiful housemate. Tenant. Something.

"Spent the last two and a half years without leave, sleeping on rocks in the desert, Cap," Barnes says with an easy shrug. He unzips his jacket, revealing a faded Metallica T-shirt with half the print flaking off. The black fabric is worn so thin, Steve can almost see the skin underneath. He keeps the glove on his left hand, though, which is odd. "Usually in full body armor," he adds, and those thick lashes sweep down as he checks Steve out. He probably thinks he's being subtle, but he fails pretty badly.

"Call me Steve. Though funny enough, 'Cap' was my nickname over there."

"Sure you wouldn't rather I call you sir?" Barnes asks slyly as he passes Steve, looking around. Somewhere under the daze of Barnes' innuendo, Steve manages to note the sharp way his eyes move. Exits. Windows. The staircase. The dark niche under the stairs. He's still got that battlefield edge to him.

"Not necessary, soldier. The perimeter is secure, in case you're wondering." Barnes turns to look at him, and there's understanding in those blue eyes. Maybe even appreciation. "I'm not sure how specific the posting on the message board was. Did it mention the first floor was common space?"

Barnes hums noncommittally. The living room is decorated in leftovers, rather than to any sort of interior design scheme. Steve's always been more concerned with comfort than coordinating fabrics or expensive electronics. Barnes, all sharp edges and rough denim, doesn't seem to mind.

Steve walks towards the back of the house, motioning for Barnes to follow. Barnes is light on his feet, despite his heavy boots; Steve can barely hear a whisper of denim and leather as they move through the house. What exactly had Barnes done in the Army?

"Living room and kitchen we share. There's laundry in the back." He waves towards the mudroom off the kitchen. "My room's upstairs, and yours is down. We each have our own bath." He points to the door to the basement. "After you."

Barnes gives the air a quick sniff as he heads down. "You didn't have to repaint just for me," he says, shooting a look back over his shoulder as he takes the stairs two at a time. His mouth turns up higher at one corner than the other as he adds, "Cap," and Steve's never heard his informal rank come out so _filthy_ before.

Nor has he seen such a good view from behind since he was around soldiers 24/7. "Ah. Painting, not repainting. I just finished putting up walls last week, and the fixtures in the bathroom aren't attached yet."

"So, I'm your first?" Barnes says, and though it comes out innocent, Steve's not fooled. Barnes' blue eyes light up again, as he clarifies, "Tenant, I mean."

Steve manages not to choke on the suggestive wording and is proud of himself for not giving Barnes a dressing down for insubordination. He hasn't felt the military instinct this strongly in a long time, and he can't tell if he likes it or not. He _can_ tell that there's heat rising up his neck to his face.

_Stay professional, Rogers._

"Tenant, yes. I had a friend staying with me for a while, but decided to create a separate living space with all the room down here."

They reach the bottom of the stairs, and Steve directs Barnes down the immaculate hallway, stinging their noses with a brand new paint job, to the door of the studio space. It runs the length of the house, but it's only half the width. Steve had put a little more effort into furnishing it, with wall-to-wall carpet in neutral beige, a double bed at the far end near the bathroom, and a desk, couch, and a TV that's only a couple years old closer to the door. All the furniture is pulled a foot away from the walls, and there are a couple of bits of masking tape still stuck to the ceiling.

He'd thought about putting up some of his better sketches to cover the bare walls, but the paint and trim had taken longer than he'd thought, so he hadn't gotten around to it. Now, he's glad. Barnes doesn't seem the landscape type.

Not that Barnes seems too picky, either. He stalks the length of the room, peers into the bathroom, then deliberately flattens a hand on the bed and looks right at Steve as he presses down on the mattress. "Looks good to me," he says, and that smile comes back, slow and devastating. "How much do you want?"

For a second, Steve's mind goes blank. Then he comes up with a list. It takes a full three seconds for him to catch up and realize Barnes is talking about rent.

"Ah. First, last, security deposit?" Steve ventures a little awkwardly.

Barnes reaches into the leather jacket — and he's still wearing a glove on his left hand, Steve notices. Casually walking back to Steve, Barnes opens the wallet and starts counting out hundreds. "Any papers to sign?" he asks, offering Steve about half the cash he's carrying.

And though the jacket doesn't gap open too much, Steve sees that cash isn't all he's carrying. Black civilian holster, black weapon, either a compact Glock or a SIG.

Steve hadn't been expecting to close the deal today. He hadn't really been ready to _show_ the place today — the paint's not even dry. And the combination of that much cash and a concealed weapon throws him. Who is this guy? Hooker, drug dealer, or hitman. Steve takes a second to assess the threat and comes up with a big question mark. He hadn't planned on a formal lease, but now legal documents sound like a very good idea, at least as a bluff.

"Yeah, sorry. I haven't printed out the lease and background check form yet. Been a little busy making the space livable." He smiles enough to look sheepish, he hopes. "Give me your address, and I can mail them to you?"

The light leaves Barnes' eyes, and for an instant, Steve feels like he just kicked a puppy. Then a mask drops down, neutral and coolly polite. Barnes shoves the cash back into his wallet and switches it for a phone. Instead of holding it with his fingers and typing with both thumbs, he cradles it in his left hand and types right-handed.

"I'll send it to your email. Same one as on the message board?" he offers, and it's properly friendly, without a hint of interest.

"Um, yeah." Steve watches Barnes poke rapidly on the screen with his right hand and feels like a heel. But he doesn't know this guy from Adam. Just because Bucky's in the service doesn't mean he's trustworthy. Not yet, anyway.

Barnes raises his phone up and shows Steve the screen to confirm the email address, and the light catches on a glint of silver between his left sleeve and the glove. Steve's eyebrows raise because whatever it is, it's definitely not a bracelet. If anything, it's a cuff of some sort, which has him imagining scenarios he should definitely leave out of a transaction such as this. He wants to shake his head to clear it but he's supposed to be nodding confirmation. It comes out a circle.

"Yeah. Sorry, the habit of doing things the official way will never leave me." Another sheepish grin. "Which means you should probably send along copies of your papers for the firearm with the other documents."

This time, Barnes doesn't pretend to smile. He switches the phone for his wallet again and slides out a white card. It almost looks like a military ID card, with a chip embedded under the photo of an unsmiling, short-haired Barnes, but all it's got on it is an identity number and a department number that's all too familiar. That number appeared on a whole lot of intelligence briefings with the sources redacted. Apparently, Barnes is affiliated with, if not directly working for, the CIA.

"I'm out on medical, but it's still good," he says bluntly.

Steve isn't sure whether to sigh in relief or raise his hackles. Of his first three guesses, one is still a viable option: hitman. _Benefit of the doubt, Rogers._ "Are you wanting a month-to-month agreement, then? Or will they shackle you to a desk when you go back?"

Too late, Steve realizes he shouldn't hand Barnes such perfect bait regarding shackles and desks, but Barnes just shrugs it off. "I'm out. The medical's permanent," he says in a too-casual voice. "This place comes in just under my Army retirement and VA benefits, with enough left over to live. That's all I need."

Steve can't keep the sincere sympathy he feels off his face, but immediately tries to temper it so as not to offend. He glances over Barnes' body as tactfully as possible, wondering what's kept him out for good. The glove at Barnes' side catches his eye, but he doesn't dream of asking. "Well, I'm happy to have you for any length of time, but on the off chance you can't stand living with me, let's go month-to-month." He powers up his most disarming smile to offset his earlier show of distrust.

It doesn't work. Barnes is still just beyond arm's length, and Steve gives up. He knows this distance is safer, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant. He liked Barnes more when he was aggressively, happily flirting, even if it was beyond inappropriate.

He leads Barnes back upstairs and heads for the foyer, only to hear Barnes blurt out, _"Jesus fucking Christ!"_

Steve turns, mouth open to snap out at Barnes, when he sees Barnes' gaze is fixed on the old fireplace off to the side of the room. It's last on Steve's fix-it list, so it's empty, but there are a couple of old pictures on the mantel.

And a small shadow box with a five-pointed medal hanging from a blue ribbon: Steve's Medal of Honor — the highest award that can be given to a member of the US military.

"You didn't —" Barnes turns a wide-eyed stare on Steve, and he straightens up, giving Steve a brisk salute. Much more sharply, he says, "I'm sorry, sir. I had no idea."

Steve smiles, resigned. He returns the salute almost as briskly so Barnes can break position. "No need to apologize." Barnes drops the salute, but he remains upright, no longer in a comfortable slouch. "And please, like I said, 'sir' is not necessary." He walks back towards Barnes and reaches to clap him on the shoulder as a gesture of camaraderie, but what he feels under the leather jacket is too solid — too hard — to be muscle, no matter how toned.

Barnes' breath catches, but he doesn't move out from under Steve's hand. "Sorry" — Steve can hear him start to say _sir_, but he stops himself — "Cap. I'll just..." He shoots a look towards the front door, like he needs to escape. "I'll get the paperwork back to you ASAP."

Steve guesses it's only a fifty-fifty chance Barnes' statement is sincere, but he doesn't blame the kid for it. He understands the need for an exit line. As well as an exit. Steve nods as the soldier in his guest struggles not to salute again on his way out, and watches from the doorway as Barnes makes a gorgeous but clearly tactical retreat.

* * *

_**Because this story is Mature, the entire work is posted at Archive of our Own.**_

You can find it at:

**archive of our own dot org /works/1679630/**

Sorry I can't put in a direct link, but this website isn't link-friendly. Just remove the spaces and turn "dot" to a .


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